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“But?”
“But you could also get hurt,” Mia says. “Again. And it’s been forever since you’ve dated anyone. Is Logan really the best option for dipping your toe back in the dating pool?”
She has a point. Dating has been difficult for years. And not just for the typical reasons dating can be hard when you’re single in your twenties.
No, my reasons are … unique.
And because our brains arethatin sync, Mia steers the conversation right to those reasons.
“What if Logan does say yes? And you go and have a great time together. And then at the end of the night, he wants to kiss you?”
The mere idea of kissing Logan makes my entire body flush with heat. I keep my head pressed to the sticky table so Mia won’t see my red cheeks.
“It’s not a real date,” I mumble. “There won’t be any kissing.”
“Uh huh. But your feelings are real. It would be easy for the lines to get blurry.”
I surehopethey will, I think.Blur away, lines!
“They won’t,” I say out loud. “Logan dates actual models and people who look like models.”
“You’re a hottie, Parker. And you two have history, which counts for something. For the sake of argument, let’s say the linesdoget blurry.” She pauses. “I’m sure Logan is used to kissing on dates.”
Atleastkissing. But I don’t want to think about whatever Logan does or doesn’t do on his dates with women who may or may not be models.
But to Mia’s point, most people would consider kissing at the end of a date normal. Fine. No big deal.
I’m not most people.
“Again, it’s not a real date,” I say. “There won’t be blurred lines or kissing.”
Mia’s quiet, so I peel my forehead off the table to look at her. The expression on her face says she believes me about as much as I believe myself.
For ninety-nine-point-nine nine percent of twenty-five-year-old women, this whole concept would be a no-brainer. Kissing Logan Barnes would be a fantasy happily lived out.
Unless you’re me.
Don’t get me wrong—kissing Logan is absolutely a fantasy of mine. One I’ve had for more years than is healthy.
The issue is that up to this point, kissinganyone at allhas remained a fantasy. Andonlya fantasy. Because I haven’t kissed anyone. Ever.
Not a peck. Not more than a peck. Zero making out at all on my relationship resume.
That’swhy Mia’s question matters.
“I don’t know,” I answer. Because I really don’t know what I’d do if Logan wanted to kiss me.
It’s not like I intended to be one of the last living kiss holdouts in the Western Hemisphere. Not kissing anyone wasn’t a purposeful choice.
At first, anyway. I was a late bloomer and on top of that, consumed with figure skating for most of my teenage years. While every other girl I know (Mia included) was kissing boys at parties and going to school dances, I was at the rink, practicing. Competing. Traveling.
When I finally gave up on the dream that was never really mine, everyone had left me behind. Not having kissed anyone felt horribly embarrassing as a senior in high school. Like the worst kind of secret.
I had severalalmostkisses—and the experiences were so laughably bad, it almost turned me off on the whole idea. When someone trying to kiss you suddenly projectile vomits,barelymissing your face, it will do that to you. And that’s justonebad story.
That ushered me into my anxiety era. I couldn’t go on a date or evenlookat a cute guy without being cripplingly self-conscious about my lack of experience.
Stupid, I know. But no amount of looking back and telling yourself not to care about something can change the fact that youdidcare at the time. It ruined any date or relationship I tried to have through college. I couldn’t enjoy a simple dinner with a guy or carry on casual conversation when worried about kissing.
